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time to get to work. I dove into my responsibilitiesas a teacher and coach. I loved working with kids and there was a lot of work to be
     done. On one side of the tracks, Mint Juleps bloomed and on the other side desperation.
     In Sparta, in 1950 if you didn’t look like a cream puff you got the short end of the
     stick, if you got any stick at all. For some reason it made me mad. I’m not sure why
     because I’d had a checkered history with racism. I followed the rules. I drank from
     the white man’s fountain and sat in the front of the bus.
    In looking back on it I think most of the kids I grew up with had a contaminated view
     of equality. If your skin was black you were a “nigger.” When I was young and dumb
     I didn’t pay much attention. Poverty was on my mind. As my brain got more wrinkles,
     I felt a lot different. I came to hate that word. For what it meant and for what it
     did.
    All my life I had known black people and I couldn’t remember one that had done me
     wrong. As a matter of fact, had it not been for Aunt Mary and some of her cousins
     I might still be in that field.
    The more I saw the madder I got. I started speaking up. I found myself losing friends.
     I found myself making friends. For every bigot that said goodbye, someone else said
     hello. I was a church-going guy and somewhere I’d heard,
Seek Only the Respect of Those You Respect
. If Mary thought I was okay, I’d be fine.
    A while later I fell in love again. Her name was Dorothy Beall. We got married. Dot
     wanted a child. She got pregnant and I was overjoyed. This daughter I would raise.
     No one would take her from me. I was right. But what I didn’t know was that God had
     a plan. He took her mom. Dorothy died on the delivery table.
    I can remember holding Bonnie Jean in my arms, looking in her eyes and loving who
     looked back. I knew it would be tough raising her by myself but I was ready. Shortly
     after the funeral Dot’s parents approached me. They didn’t think I could do their
     granddaughter right. They said they’d made arrangements to take her. I said no.
    I placated the pain with hard work and getting Bonnie Jean walking. I continued to
     teach and coach. I wasn’t happy with the racial climate but I had enough to keep me
     busy so I plowed ahead. I could feel my anger growing. It soon turned to gloom.
    A black baseball team had a game in the park where the class D teams played. The ball
     field was near the school gym. The showers in their bathhouse didn’t work. The solution
     was simple. I talked with their coach and told him they could use the showers in the
     high school. He was hesitant. I guess he knew a whole lot more about racism than I
     did. He understood the implication of that act. I didn’t. I convinced him it wasn’t
     a problem. He told me they didn’t need to shower. I now realize he was probably trying
     to protect me. I took a stand and they got clean. As they walked out of the locker
     room each ball player made a point of shaking my hand and thanking me. I was surprised
     because I thought it was no big deal. I was wrong.
    Next morning, the chairman of the school board was knocking on my door and she was
     mad. “Come with me,” she commanded. I obeyed. We went to the store and bought soap,
     detergent, and disinfectant. We went back and scrubbed the showers. For an hour I
     got to listen to her tirade. It was personal. Her son played on the high schoolteam and the last thing he was going to do was shower where a nigger had used the
     soap.
    The next day I was counseled about being color-blind. I decided it was time to leave.
     I could hear Roswell, Georgia calling my name. I took my daughter and headed out.
     It was 1954 and I was back at work. I coached football and track. I raised my girl
     and enrolled in a master’s program.
    Experience had taught me good and bad fortune usually arrives unexpectedly. That sure
     was the case. One day I was working in the student center, when the most